


all the more reason

by lilyofthevalley (naimeria)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Panic, M/M, Melancholy, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Roger doesn't deserve John, Talking To Dead People, and it's well on it's way to being Not, at all actually, it's lighthearted until it's not my friends, no one deserves John actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:01:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/lilyofthevalley
Summary: Roger Taylor, dead as a doorknob, and his best friend John Deacon (also dead) meet some blokes who are decidedly NOT.Dead, that is.(that au where half the band is comprised of ghosts (and they're not even a band). this is not a deathfic! i mean, it is, but you kind of go in knowing who's dead, so.)





	1. Chapter 1

 

Roger remembers dying. Most of them do, unless they’ve been around for too long, and then they don't remember much at all. He remembers the pain of it, the bloody finality, and the people he left behind. Sometimes, it’s all he can think about.

Making the most of bad circumstances is something he’s always tried to excel at, though, so try he does. Walking through towns he’s never been to while unaffected by the cold rain is a favorite past time, as well as saying hello to all the cats he sees. Hell, he’s even made a friend. 

“Hey, John! Where you heading?” 

John Deacon turns and smiles, long hair spilling over a simple blazer. Roger has no idea how he died - but then again, he himself hasn't told anyone, so he can't exactly blame him. They met a few months ago in Kensington: Roger had been throwing sticks at people, and John had been watching the pigeons. Roger wouldn’t necessarily say he’s clingy, but he’s not sure there’s been a full day that he hasn’t seen John since. John doesn’t seem to mind at any rate. 

“Hey, Roger. Nowhere really.” 

Not one for much personal space, living or otherwise, Roger throws an arm over John's shoulder and reels him in close. Touch doesn’t quite qualify as such anymore, but there’s a warm sort of pressure, a happy lie his brain tells him as he reels John in. John goes, following the warmth. 

“Well we're off somewhere now,” Roger says to fill the space between them. Others, their forms diluted slightly by no-one-knows-what, walk by without noticing them at all. Roger has long since grown used to being ignored by the living, and dutifully ignores them right back. 

“I like walking,” John says, tone not only expressing that he thinks Roger will find this ludicrous, but that he should feel no obligation to follow along. 

Disagreement has never tasted so melancholic. Walking the same streets he did a literal lifetime ago doesn’t have the same vibe as it did when he could actually touch and smell things. But, you know what they say about good company. “Walking's fine, let's keep at it, then,” Roger accedes, waving a hand and steering John down a street he once knew well. 

And walks right into someone. 

Roger goes sprawling, hands waving even as John tries to grab at his shoulder. “Oi, what -” 

His squawk is silenced by the sheer shock that jolts him from head to toe. A hand not belonging to John grips him by the elbow, and joining it is a face a foot from his own, hazy with the divide that keeps all natural things apart. The touch is impossibly solid, his elbow held by a long-fingered hand, attached at the wrist to a man with a shock of curls and a soft pink and purple striped shirt. He's tall, taller than most, and his long eyelashes dust his cheeks as he blinks, looking startled and embarrassed down at Roger.

“Are you alright? So sorry about that.” 

Roger, who hasn't had to worry about strangers bashing into him in over a year, gapes like a fish. He should probably be asking something along the lines of _how the hell can you see me?_ or _how are you not dead?_ All he can muster is a lame “wha?”

Impeccably groomed brows furrow, and the grip loosens on his elbow just so. The touch feels insistent, something invasive, and Roger never wants him to let go. “I asked if you were alright, mate,” the man says, impossibly curly hair framing his long face. He looks a mix of alarmed and confused, and Roger just blinks at him, mouth agape. 

“I, uh,” he stammers, and John makes himself known by clearing his throat and stepping up into Roger's space, hand still on his shoulder where he'd caught him. Now more than ever can Roger feel the difference. 

Brown eyes stare down the man before them, stern for all his twenty years. “Are you alive?” Never one to beat around the bush, John Deacon. 

But the man doesn't seem to hear him; in fact, he doesn't react to John at all. He just keeps watching Roger, eyebrows up, hand loose on his elbow. “Do you need help? I can call someone if you-”

“No,” he says too quickly, and pulls out of the man’s grip, then nearly falls again. “No, it’s fine, sorry, I was just. Leaving.” 

And leave he does, turning on his heel and practically jogging away from the man and his pretty curls, whose touch had been far too gentle. John is silent at his back, and Roger can feel his gaze, but it’s not until he makes it two blocks down that he can turn and look at him. 

“You’re shaking,” John notes, tone an odd mix of concerned and flat. He’s not touching Roger now, hands buried deep in his pockets, long hair motionless though the wind blows the hazy trees around them. 

Raking both hands through his hair, Roger scoffs and ignores him. “What the hell was that?” He asks, voice high and slightly hysterical. He winces, clears his throat, rubs his hands on his thighs. “No, really, what the bloody _hell?_ ” 

Eyes hard but body relaxed, John crowds into his space and runs a knuckle over the back of his neck. It’s not solid enough now, and Roger flinches back, shifting from foot to foot. He knows he must look crazy - he feels crazy. 

Undeterred, John grabs the back of his neck completely, saying, “you need to calm down, Roger.” 

It’s not the tone that does it, or even the impression of touch, but the realization that John is going out of his comfort zone for him. For all the physical affection Roger likes to give, John tolerates it but rarely returns much. The hand on his nape feels a little more real; Roger takes a rattling breath, and nods.

The muffled sounds of traffic around them, combined with John rubbing his thumb up and down the back of his neck in a steady rhythm, helps calm his nerves. “Yeah, alright,” he mutters, clenching his fists to ease the fidgeting. 

“I dunno what that was about,” John says, giving Roger two more quick pets before dropping his hand away. The absence of the muted pressure leaves him feeling even more empty. “He certainly wasn’t dead.” 

“Obviously,” Roger says into his palm, before running it through his hair. “Sorry,” he adds, guilt pulling his lips into a little frown. 

John waves the apology away. “I want to find him again.” 

That raises Roger’s hackles. “What? Why?!” 

“What do you mean, _why?_ ” John asks, eyebrows sky high, a direct contrast to Roger’s furrowed ones. “If he’s alive, and he could see you - could touch you - don’t you think that warrants a little investigating?” 

Roger, who’d rather die again than admit that all he wants is for that man to touch him again, frowns. (It is not a pout, dammit.) “It was probably a fluke anyway. No sense in being disappointed.”

“Wow, Rog. I never knew you were so boring.” John’s face is sculpted in incredulity. 

Affronted, Roger scoffs. “I’m not boring, I just -” The words fade to nothing, hanging between them like a dead leaf ready to fall. 

The thing is, he has no real reason why he’s turning tail and running. The living and their clouded bodies carry on with their day, walking past or through the likes of him and John, no thought of what could be right in front of them but just beyond reach. This man, clouded and separate from them - he’d seen him, touched him. This is something. Neither of them knows what, or what it could mean, or if it’ll ever happen again, but it’s important. He’s not an idiot, he’s just - 

Scared. 

His eyes had been so kind. Roger doesn’t know that he could stand never seeing them again, but he’s terrified the next time he does, he won’t be seen in return. 

“I’m not going back there today,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, feet planted firmly on the Norfolk sidewalk. Looking down the street, he sighs. “But you’re right.” Roger doesn’t need to say about what. 

John smiles, a picture of patience. “We’ll look for him tomorrow, then.” 

“You’re not the boss of me.” It would sell better if he weren’t smiling now, too.

“It’s cute that you think that,” is the lofty reply, and Roger bumps his shoulder. The touch isn’t all he wants, but it’s enough.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not enough. 

Roger can’t stop thinking about him. The feel of fingers on his skin like a livewire, ready to ignite any waiting spark. Warm eyes, sloped back, every inch of him delicate, like he’s worried the world around him is a breakable thing. Torture, basically, is what Roger is currently experiencing; want over something he might not ever get. Plus, the dead don’t sleep, so that level of reprieve is non-existent. 

Someone else would call this infatuation. Roger just calls it - well, it’s a bit of an infatuation, actually, but his reasoning is sound. He’s not crazy, he’s just normally an invisible man among those still enjoying the luxuries of everyday life. The fact that one of said people can see him? And didn’t run screaming for the hills?

Roger’s allowed to be just a little bit in love with him. 

The professor at the front of the hall shifts her lecture from ecological interactions to biomechanics, and Roger rises from the floor with a grunt. University is usually a good follow up to a long night (full of brooding, as John rudely put it), but even the core marine biology lectures can’t keep his attention. He’s wandering halls he’s only known the past year, going through doors he’s never touched. It’s a reminder, and not always a painful one; sometimes it’s nice to realize he can go wherever he wants with no penalty. Not being chained to one major, learning what he wants on his own time, and no deadlines as far as the eye can see? The only downside is he had to be literally dead to experience it. 

It’s raining, which of course doesn’t matter, and Roger makes his way from the science building over to the design hall, hands in his pockets and eyes cast to the sky.  
“How is it,” a voice says behind him, “that you barely made it to class while you were alive, but now that you’re dead you can’t stay away?” 

“I liked sleep,” Roger says, deadpan, but chases it with a grin. “Come off, I was a good student. Don’t be jealous.” 

Crystal ruffles his hair, bangs pouring over into his eyes. Roger swats at him and kicks his ankle. 

“You look like an angry tomcat,” is the reply as Chris Taylor steps to the side, gracefully avoiding tripping over the curb. Roger sees it, and still manages to stumble a bit as he straightens his hair. 

“And whose fault is that anyway?” 

“Yours you twit, shoulda cut it when you had the chance.” 

Roger shoves him further into the street, then fluffs his hair with a saunter. “Looking a little green there, Chris.” 

“You wish.” 

They walk in amicable silence, the rain easing up to a light mist. Students and professors alike brave the slick sidewalks, some with their bags over their manicured hair, others just bothering with their upturned collars. For a time, reflex caught Roger doing the same, but he’s long since moved past it. Now the chill is only imagined, and if he closes his eyes, sometimes he can pretend he can feel the moisture as it tickles his cheeks. 

When he opens them, he sees a striking head of damp curls, and walks into a pole. 

“Forget how to walk through ‘em, mate?” Crystal says on a laugh, hand out to steady him. Roger, holding his aching face, spins and hides behind the closest thing he can find, which is a post box. 

Crystal now, naturally, thinks his friend had lost his mind. 

“Also forget the part where they can't see you?” 

“Shut up,” Roger grouses, but doesn't rise. “Of all the bloody odds.” Is the man stalking him? Can you die twice? Is he legitimately insane? 

While Roger is enjoying a spiritual and emotional crisis, Crystal calls out over his head, “oh, hello, John. Ignore him, he’s off his rocker today.”

Roger stands up so fast his hair gets in his mouth. “Deaky!”

Said man is staring at him with one delicate brow arched, hands on his hips as he looks at him with thinly veiled judgement. Before he can speak, however, Roger steamrolls over him. 

“It's him! With the hair, and long fingers!” 

Too much, and too high-pitched. 

“Oh, so it is. Small world.” He sounds like Roger's just told him a fun fact about marsupials. 

“Damn it, John!” There is zero shame in stomping his foot in a situation like this. 

“Okay, someone planning on filling me in?” Crystal asks, waving his hands for emphasis. 

“See that student over there, mess of curly hair?” John points him out as he hops the curb and makes his way over to the quad, indifferent to the drizzle overhead. “Looks like he’s going to the library, Roger. That's perfect.” 

“Nothing about this is perfect.” He resolutely turns his back on the man, arms crossed and feet planted. 

The look that John gives him is withering. “Rog here has an admirer.” 

Crystal blinks. “That bloke's dead? Looked pretty alive and well to me.” 

“He does indeed.” 

“Listen, the two of you,” Roger all but shouts, turning on them with a glare. “If I have to hunt him down and prove to you that what happened yesterday was a fluke, then fine.” 

John waves his hand in front of him, a beckoning gesture of royalty. “By all means.” 

The noise that comes out of Roger's mouth is, quite frankly, inhuman, but away he goes. John and Crystal follow, the former a picture of calm and the latter of confusion. The head of hair and long legs they're following has a quick stride, but they see him duck into the uni library easily enough. Roger manages to walk through the door and not into it, so that's helpful at least, and soon they're face to face with the familiar Imperial London College library. 

“He's over there,” John says, pointing over Roger's shoulder. Sure enough, he’s at an old mahogany desk, pulling papers out of his waterlogged bag.

Before either of them can saying anything more to piss him off, Roger walks toward him, doing his best to ignore the butterflies beating hell on his ribcage. 

“Uh, hey.” 

Roger would like nothing more than to sink into the floor. 

The man looks up, mouth slightly ajar, eyes lighting up in recognition after a moment’s pause. “Oh, hi,” he says, tone light with mild surprise. There's dots of dew still clinging to his curly locks, haloing his head like so many stars. 

Roger stares, licks his lips, and says absolutely nothing. He can still see him. He can still _see him_. John is right, or maybe Crystal is, maybe he's insane. Maybe his eyes just aren't working right, or he just died recently and doesn't know he's dead, god, wouldn't that be tragic - 

One thought cuts through the chaos, errant but demanding. _It means something._

“Just,” Roger blurts, a little too loud for the setting, and a little too delayed for normal conversation. “Wanted to apologize for yesterday. Saw you from the biology section and figured I should, y’know. Was a little off, yesterday, felt stupid.”

Every word comes easier, and by now the bemused grin is natural. 

The man, whose expression had been rather locked tight, eases. He smiles, a little thing, and says “no harm done. You alright then? Seemed a bit shaken up.” 

“Yeah - yeah no, I'm fine,” Roger says quickly, tucking one hand deep in his pocket. “Weird day is all. Got a bad habit of not looking where I'm going half the time, drives my mates nuts.” Under normal circumstances, anyone bumping into him like might've resulted in a fistfight on a bad day, a brash insult on a good one. But those weren't exactly those sort of circumstances. 

“I'm Roger, by the way, Roger Taylor.” Holding his hand out over the desk is one of the easiest and hardest things he thinks he's ever done. Simple, but the fear of rejection has never been so poignant. What will he do, if his hand just keeps on going, passing straight through?

“Brian May. A pleasure.” 

His grip is soft and warm, and Roger makes sure to let go before it becomes awkward, even though he never wants to. His fingers tingle as his hand drops to his sides. To keep from saying something ridiculous like _how are you so pretty_ or _thanks for touching me_ , he asks, “I don't think I've seen you around, what do you study?” 

“Oh,” Brian says, eyebrows up as he looks down at his notes and the two big books they're resting on. “Astrophysics. Interplanetary dust, actually. Got the midterm coming up, so,” he adds, waving a hand at the notes. Roger is only half listening, thoughts still focused on the feel of his hand in his.

“Right,” Roger says. “Mine are too.”

He hears a muffled “oh Lord” behind him, and it takes everything in his power not to turn around and glare. “Should probably get back to it, actually,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “Hopefully I'll see you around?”

“Definitely. Good luck on yours,” Brian says with a sweet smile. His downcast eyes don't really feel like a dismissal, especially when, as Roger turns, he looks back up at him and quirks another smile, almost like a secret. 

Roger is incredibly fucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roger in Gay Panic Mode kind of gives me life, so
> 
> (didn't proofread because today has been a shitshow, apologies for anything potentially glaring)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crystal has an appropriate mini-meltdown, and roger doesn't deserve john deacon.  
> (i promise freddie is gonna be in this eventually guys just. bear with me here and enjoy the happy.)

“Why on Earth would you lie about being a student?” 

“Fuck that, why could he _see you?_ ” 

“I hate both of you so much.” 

A fast pace doesn't seem to be much of a deterrent for his tails. Roger stalks across the damp grass and through the gate bringing them to an old lot, rarely used for anything besides cycles, with John on his right and Crystal on his left. Though he’d like it if both of them shut up and sodded off, that doesn’t seem too likely, and he turns to them with a gesture before he gets really cranky. 

“Seriously, can we just drop it?” 

“ _Are you joking?_ ” Crystal asks, mouth hanging open and eyebrows sky high. “Seriously, are you fucking off it? How do you not want to-”

“Roger, you seem to rather like his company,” John steamrolls over Crystal’s growing panic, and the surprise of being interrupted by one of the quietest men shuts him up. Which is probably for the best, considering Roger feels something like an alarm clock building up to start shrieking. “Are you really going to see him again?” 

Roger personally thought the answer was obvious. Then again, ten minutes ago showed him hiding behind a post box. “Yeah,” he says, and though he tries to make it sound light, his throat does something funny and he has to swallow. John smiles at him, narrowed eyes wrinkled at the edges, and the tightness in Roger’s chest loosens. 

“Wish he could see you, though,” he says, and means it. 

John puts his hands on his hips. “Yes, well. The fact that he can see you is miraculous enough. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” 

“How did you find this guy, anyway? This living, breathing guy.” Crystal asks, leaning forward and bumping shoulders with Roger. 

“Funny story,” John says, grin nearing something wicked. “Roger walked into him. Literally.” 

John is the worst. “You are the worst.”

“And he just,” Crystal starts, snapping his fingers for emphasis, “saw you?” 

They pick up their stroll where they left off, incessant drizzle speeding up to a steady rain. “I guess. Treated me like I was there, you know.” 

“I really don’t, but go on.” 

Roger glares at Crystal, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Well neither do I. We were walking, and you get used to walking through people, but instead he shouldered me in the throat.” Brian May, with his skinny shoulders and long fingers and wide eyes. Roger wrinkles his nose, and John chuckles at him. 

“It was quite funny.” 

“Oh, bugger off.” 

“I think I will, actually,” Crystal says, slapping a hand to Roger’s shoulder. “Not that this hasn't been overwhelmingly crazy, but it kind of has. Meeting up with Peter in a bit. Come with?” 

Roger waves at a cat as they pass by a little alley on Beech. It blinks demurely at him, then flicks its tail and sets a white chin on black paws. “Nah, thanks mate.” John shakes his head but thanks him as well. 

“Alright then, sods, I’ll see you later. Try not to walk into any more people, living or otherwise?” 

Roger flips him the bird, and Crystal laughs before turning and passing through a couple sharing an umbrella. 

 

“My new life’s goal is to find someone for you, John.”

“Please don’t.” 

Roger grins and picks at the leaf in his hands. “Just, you’ll be walking one day, and WHAM.” 

“And look as ridiculous as you did, fawning over all that hair? Pass.”

“I’ll be hiding in a bush, watching the whole time.” 

John actually shoves him, but his lips are quirked in a smile, so Roger rolls over in the grass dutifully, legs still pinned under the rest of his weight. “Doubt there’s someone like that out there for me,” John says, tone light. 

Roger imagines the wind blowing his hair away from his shoulders, soft tufts catching on his blazer before being carried off, and is overcome by a wave of sadness so intense he presses his cheek into the grass. It’s never right, the tickle and itch gone, and when Roger rises, John’s hair is motionless. 

“I could be,” Roger says, pitching his voice low and throaty, an attempt to stave away the melancholy that wants to swallow him whole. 

Nose wrinkled, John moves to shove him again, but winds up bumping their shoulders together instead. “I’m touched.” And there’s the flat look Roger was aiming for. 

He doesn’t think John looks as sad as he himself feels; if anything, he just looks pensive. “You never know, though.” Taking advantage of the momentum, Roger falls over again in the grass, but lays out fully, taking in a big breath. 

“That I don’t love you for your body? Pretty sure I know that.” 

“Not that, prat,” Roger gripes, smacking John across the chest. The angle is bad, so he only gets him with his fingertips. “I mean, there could be a Brian May out there for you. Maybe we all have one.” 

John’s look goes distant, which means he’s overthinking. Patience is somewhat beyond him, so Roger gives him a few seconds before adding, “or I could be the most special dead guy ever.” 

Thing is, they haven’t really talked to others much, about all of this. What it means, that they’re still here, living a shadow’s life - it’s not crossed Roger’s mind much to think about it. He knows not everyone that’s died is here; overpopulation is already a thing for the living, imagine if two hundred thousand years’ worth of dead blokes were still walking the streets. No, they have to either be here for a reason, or move on once whatever that reason _is_ is done. 

So then what’s it mean, when a living man can see through it? 

John still looks like he’s taking all that in and more, and so Roger swats at him again. John blinks, then sets his bemused gaze down at his friend. “You were already special before you met your Brian May.” 

“See, coming from literally anyone else, that would have been sweet. You just sounded like you were reading the list of ingredients off a jam jar.” 

John snorts and settles down beside him in the grass, making sure to get some of his hair on Roger’s face. Sputtering aside, Roger’s feeling a little more at peace. He might not know what’s going on, but when has he ever? 

“Let’s just see where this takes us,” John says, staring up at the murky sky. The rain’s finally pittered out. 

Roger, for all he pretends not to care about the future and what this fleeting existence has in store for him, smiles. It’s pulled from deep in his chest, and he brings up a hand to cover his face, embarrassed. A reminder that John Deacon, all his diffident looks and mannerisms aside, considers Roger as part of his wallpaper now is exactly what he needed. He’s got John through the thick of it, and it warms him to the tips of his toes. 

“Yeah, lets.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm ashamed that i haven't given a shoutout to @waywardrunawaycherryblossom and @a-belladonic-haze on tumblr yet for listening to me scream and be Sad about these dead nerds. thanks for bouncing ideas off my noggin friends!!
> 
> find me doing all of the above on tumblr @atenementfunster as well


	4. Chapter 4

“John, what if he wants to get drinks? He’s gonna look insane, sitting at a table and talking to an empty chair. Or what it he asks for my number? I haven’t owned a phone in almost a year, John!” It’s a good thing no one can hear him - Broadway Market is busy, and no amount of hacking and hollering would drown out Roger’s frenzied yelling.

“These are the things you’re worried about.” It’s not a question. John is even smirking at him, the ass. 

“Yes, and they’re all valid concerns!” Roger’s arms wave through the air, a display of his mounting panic. If anything, John’s grin gets bigger, and Roger stomps over to him, pointing a finger in his face with conviction. “We can barely explain why he can talk to a dead guy. How do I see him again and not explain ‘oh, sorry no, the bloke at the bar can’t see me so don’t bother ordering me a pint’? Am I supposed to _tell him_? How am I supposed to explain something like that?!” 

“Roger, you might want to take a second to breathe in between emotional crises.” 

“And would you _stop smiling at me_!” He stops walking, feet planted firmly on the worn sidewalk. The anger starts to shine through the panic, and Roger wants to take John by the shoulders and shake him. This must show on his face, because John raises his hands in surrender. 

“Alright, alright. For the record, I think this is all a little premature.” He’s using his best placating voice, and Roger wants to scream. “You haven’t seen him in two days. Who’s to say he’ll invite you out for drinks at all?” 

Despite his anger, he wrinkles his nose and stares incredulously at the blasphemer. “What, you saying I’m not a catch?” 

“I think we’ve been over this.” At least the cheeky smile is gone. A win is a win. “Besides, you have to actually find him again for any of this to matter.” 

Roger clenches his teeth to keep from pouting. “What, d’you think I’ve been sitting on my thumbs? I’ve been looking. It’s not like he’s got a damn bell.” 

“I know you have,” John says, placating. 

Like a teapot taken off of it’s burner, his shoulders drop and he huffs. John has a unique way of extinguishing his hot-headed temper. “I just wish this was easier. There’s not exactly a rulebook for this shit.” 

John’s large hand pats his shoulder twice, consoling. “You’ll have to write one then.” 

“Yeah,” Roger snorts. “Sure.”

The sidewalk leads them past a rack of bikes and into a familiar doorway. Roger stares at the sign, a simple A frame propped up a few feet away, and swallows. “I didn’t think I needed to remind you,” John says as they enter the Market Cafe, “but you are a catch.” 

“Aww, Deaky,” Roger mumbles, a grateful smile catching the melancholy and doing it’s best to snuff it out. He bumps John’s hip with his own, but his lack of attention and momentum sends his other hip into a table. John laughing at him is somehow even better than the compliment, throbbing aside. 

They sit by the canal imagining the earthy smell of coffee brewing, of beer-soaked wood warmed by the sun. The light shines across the water in marbled waves, and Roger wonders if John had come to this place when he was at University like he had. Maybe they’d seen each other in passing and not even known it. Had John heard him play here, the few nights a month he’d managed to pry himself away from his essays, from the books he was slowly losing interest in? The railing in front of him is rough and cold to the touch, and Roger can imagine it, knows exactly what it feels like when clenched tight in an angry fist. 

“So,” John says quietly, interrupting his downhill thoughts, “and am I invited to these pre-planned dates?” 

The question takes Roger aback. “What? Of course you are.” 

The crow’s feet at John’s eyes are on full display, and Roger realizes too late what he’s admitted to. Blustering, he adds quickly, “I’m not just assuming that he’s gonna want to pick me up for a night on the town after seeing me again, John.” 

“Wishful thinking?” 

Even though he knows he’s being teased, Roger still blushes. It’s an angry red, and he turns away, shaking his head so his hair goes a bit crazy around his face. “Maybe.” 

“Well, I’m honored.” John’s done him the favor of bowling over the point, and maybe that’s why they get along so well. For all his teasing, he knows when to let up, when to throw Roger the ring buoy to keep him from drowning in anger or embarrassment. “That’s why we’re here, anyway.” 

“Wait, what?” And here he thought it was for the express purpose of making him sad. 

“Every student at London College drinks or studies here,” John says, like it’s a well-studied statistic. 

Roger just gapes at him. They’ve been friends for months, but he knows next to nothing about the goings-on that were once John’s life. “Even you?” He can’t help but push whenever given the chance. 

“Maybe,” John’s reply is lofty, elusive. 

Roger’s back to pouting, one leg crossed over the other in derision. “Fine then, keep your secrets.” Though there’s genuine disappointment, Roger is willing to sacrifice curiosity for the sake of John’s privacy. Meeting after they’ve died is probably something of a comfort to someone like John, and Roger, for all that he wants to put, doesn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable. Besides, it’s not like he’s disclosed much. 

His brooding is interrupted rather suddenly when his view is obstructed by a wide back and too much hair. Roger’s squawk and raised arms elicit a nice set of giggles from John, and Roger would be happy to appreciate it if he weren’t currently being _sat on_. 

It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last, but still, Roger jumps up and kicks at the girl’s shin. She sips at her coffee, unperturbed, and pulls out an intimidatingly organized-looking notebook as Roger seethes. At least her rubbing her arms at the sudden chill makes him feel somewhat validated. John’s outright laughing at him now, and he’s tempted to stomp over to him and sit in his lap. It would only end in him getting dumped on the floor, though, and he doesn’t feel like taking the loss. 

Once he finds a new mercifully vacant seat, Roger turns back to John and gives him an petulant look when the giggles keep coming. “ _Anyway,_ ” he interjects, eyebrows furrowed with derision and elbows propped up on his knees as he leans into John’s space. 

John finally quiets, looking over at the girl’s hazy form once more before turning back to Roger. “If you must know,” he says lightly, eyes still alight with amusement and fingers interlaced over a knee, “I studied Electrical Engineering.” 

Roger lights up like a Christmas tree. 

“Really? Did you build anything? Circuit boards or?” 

Johns raised eyebrow perfectly conveys his desire to put his hand over Roger’s mouth. “Yes, yes, and one, but it was only for a midterm.” 

Roger’s practically wiggling on the stool. “What did you build, then?” He wants to know how long he was in school for, and if he graduated, and if he was planning on going further with his schooling; all questions that end in the eventuality of “gee, Roger, probably not, considering I died” so Roger’s not too keen to ask. He has _some_ tact. 

John probably knows he’s itching to ask all that and more, but seems grateful that he hasn’t. His smile is fond. “An amp, actually. You might’ve even liked it. I know you liked to play guitar.” 

Roger grins. “That I did. Drums were my thing, though.” The past tense sours his tongue, and he purses his lips. Frustration tastes like acid, and the bitterness bleeds into his words. “Fuck that. I’m still a drummer, dammit.” 

The venom seems to take John by surprise; Roger’s clenches a fist before letting out a breath. “What a pair we make,” he says with a huff, tossing his hair and averting his gaze for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, John’s smile is faded like the sun perched behind him, but it’s still there, resolute. He reaches over and gives Roger’s knee a squeeze, and it takes a fair amount of self control on Roger’s part to not mirror the action.

“And you’re still an electrical engineer. I now expect you to build me an amp, I hope you know.” Roger points at him. “Ghost amp.” 

“Ghost amp,” John affirms with a nod, solemn, hands back in his lap and eyes closed. When he opens them, his gaze darts from Roger’s face to something over his shoulder, and suddenly he looks like a cat that was just presented with a rather large platter of tuna. 

“Look at that,” he says, smug. “Looks like I was right. Your Brian is very predictable.”

“He’s not my-” comes out of his mouth, already a reflex, but then the words catch up to him, and Roger’s eyes bug out before he turns with a jerk and nearly falls off the stool. 

Walking through the door is indeed Brian May, a mass of frizzy curls and too long legs, and Roger jumps up off the stool and hides behind the door frame. John watches, unimpressed. 

“You might want to work on not leaping behind the nearest object every time you see him,” John points out. “If you want him to actually like you, that is.” 

“We discussed this!” Roger hisses. “I look like a loser, sitting by myself talking to nobody!” 

A flash of irritation shoots across John’s face, so quick Roger could have imagined it. “If you’d like to actually sit by yourself, that can be easily arranged, you know.” 

Shame floods his gut like a tidal wave. “Sorry, John, I’m an ass,” Roger says, hands dropping to his sides, turning his back on the doorframe and away from Brian. 

John nods. “You are, but I forgive you.” 

“I don’t deserve it,” Roger bemoans, dropping to a knee at the tiny table, holding his hands up as in prayer. John laughs, a surprised sound, and Roger bows his head. He gets an open-palmed smack for his efforts. 

“You’re a fool, and grovelling is unbecoming. Now go to the bar before he catches you talking to _nobody_.” The bugger uses air quotations and everything. Roger sticks his tongue out at him, but climbs to his feet, and John’s smile tells him he’s forgiven. 

Thankfully, Brian doesn’t seem to have spotted his lunacy, and is ordering what looks like the largest espresso he's ever seen. Toying with the idea of waiting by the canal, Roger shifts from foot to foot, trying to look busy while owning nothing of which to do so while he decides if he wants to approach him or not. Luckily, the choice is out of his hands a moment later, when a light voice calls his name. 

“Roger, isn’t it?” 

Making the mistake of first catching John’s eye, who grins at him and raises the most mocking thumbs up he’s ever seen, Roger turns. 

“Yeah?” he says, hand up in half a wave, in what he hopes looks like a pleasantly surprised expression. Brian’s smile doesn’t scream _why did I just greet this git_ so he must be doing something right. 

“Oh, hi.” Shyness threatens to throttle his words, but he pushes on, leaning against the railing, John in his peripheral. This is tantamount to torture. “Brian, right?” Roger asks, as if he doesn’t know his name, his eye color, exactly how short cut his fingernails are. 

Brian seems delighted at being remembered, and ducks his head with a little smile. “That’s me.” It’s only been two days since they formally met, Roger marvels, so why are they both so bad at this? And that’s a thought that lodges itself in his brain and sticks there - Brian’s just as awkward as he is, and he doesn’t have the whole _living-dead_ dichotomy to worry about. 

He can do this. 

“Ditch class for a cuppa or done for the day?” Roger asks, tucking his hands in his pockets. Casual looks good on him, and he knows it. 

“Done for the weekend, actually,” Brian says, and takes a sip of his coffee, which looks like it’s trying its best to emulate tar. 

“Then why on Earth are you drinking _that_.” Roger points to the offending cup, nose wrinkled. 

Brian, seemingly unmoved, takes another sip while holding Roger’s gaze. Roger mimes gagging, and that elicits a smirk. “Didn’t get much sleep is all,” is what Brian says when he’s done teasing him. 

“Oh yeah?” Roger asks with a provocative roll of his eyebrows. John snorts, and it cuts Roger short, his peanut gallery a stark reminder. He’s gotten too comfortable - what is he gonna do, bring Brian back to a home he doesn’t have? Go to Brian’s house and seduce him? He’s dead, he’s pretty sure he can’t have sex with Brian, alive or otherwise. And anyway, should he? 

The mounting panic has him blinking quickly in the face of Brian’s amusement who, instead of getting offended, is blushing prettily and laughing, gaze averted. 

Well, shit. 

“Sorry, get ahead of myself,” Roger says, waving a hand and trying to focus on breathing through his internal moral struggles. Two years ago, he would have been leaning against Brian by now, trying to bum a smoke off him, suggesting he get him a drink. Now, things are about as different as they can be, and Roger finds the thought cloying.

“Quite alright,” Brian says, though he still seems a bit embarrassed. “I won’t pretend to not be offended by your distaste for my drink, though.” 

Roger brightens at that. “Well, not everyone can have taste, I suppose,” he says, waving at hand. 

“Can I get you one? You can even put milk and sugar in it, if you’d like.” And God, Brian looks so _earnest_ , and Roger only has a second to choke on his grief, to contemplate the what-ifs. The moment passes, and he smiles, and it’s only a little shaky. 

“Just finished mine, but next time?” Roger acquiesces, even though he should know better. Brian’s smile is worth it to him, he realizes. It’s kind of worth everything, and the thought is terrifying. 

“Bold of you,” Brian says, brows raised and lips pursed. His stance is hunched, everything about his posture designed to make himself seem smaller, unnoticeable. His smirk is shy, and Roger realizes that he’s treading unfamiliar ground too. It’s a bolstering thought. 

“Been called worse,” he says. Still, he has an image to uphold, and he flips a lock of hair over his shoulder, body angled so he can see John. Said friend is currently pantomiming tying a noose around his neck, and Roger flips him the bird with a hand behind his back. 

Brian is now chuckling at him, a deep purring sound, and oh, his canines are really pointed. What a good thing for him to know. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” the canines say. 

Roger swallows, and he doesn’t have to look at John to know he’s laughing at him. Luckily, his attention for all things Brian May’s hands saves him from saying something stupider than he’s already managed - he’s caught a glance at Brian’s fingers as he reaches to scratch at the back of his head, and sees a familiar sight. 

“Do you play?” he asks, standing up on his toes before lowering his heels back to the ground. 

Brian’s movements slow, and he opens his palm in front of them both, shifting from foot to foot while his smile shifts from something sly to something more authentic and warm. “Yeah, you?” 

“Used to,” Roger says, and is proud that his voice doesn’t waver. “More of a percussionist, but I loved my guitar. What do you play? You look like the Fender type.” 

His entire posture changes, and Roger knows he’s found something closer to the real Brian May. Eyes sharper and hunched shoulders leaned closer Roger, he sets down the cooled remnants of his espresso. “I do like a Tele, but my dad and I, we recently just finished making one.” 

“A guitar?” Roger’s incredulity is matched only by his fascination. “What, out of bits of wood and metal?” 

“A fireplace, mostly.” 

Roger blinks, and then laughs, loud and bright. “Come off it, really? That’s blinding!” 

Shy smile back in place, Brian ducks his head and laughs along with him, shaking his head a bit so his curls bounce this way and that. “He did most of the work, really, but I love it.” 

“Oh, I’ll bet. That’s brilliant, you gotta show me sometime,” Roger crows.

“You can come by tonight, if you’d like,” Brian says, fast and all at once, as though he’s inviting him before he has a chance to regret it. It’s charming, but unease creeps across Roger’s skin, and he smiles while trying to catch John’s eye. John, who’s nodding emphatically, giving him _shoo, shoo_ hands, followed by a thumbs up. He doesn’t deserve John Deacon, really. 

“Sure,” Roger says, “but only if you’ll let me play it.” 

He has absolutely no idea if he’ll even be able to touch the thing. Brian, luckily, seems to have similar thoughts. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, but I have other guitars,” he says, that clever little smile curling his lips again. 

Roger eyes the setting sun, and nods, sticking his tongue between his teeth as he smiles. “I can live with that.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in updating! this chapter is more than double the usual length, so at least there's that?


	5. Chapter 5

They leave the cafe as dusk fades away to night, and Roger is glad to escape the bitter familiarity of the shop’s evening scene. Coffee to beer, murmurs to raucous laughter, Roger has spent many nights there when he could still taste and smell and touch. 

Tonight isn’t without its own brand of excitement, though. Brian is at his side, several inches taller than him as he cranes his neck to eye the stars, though his words are for Roger. 

John’s on his right, slightly begrudging in a show of slouched shoulders and pocketed hands. He hadn’t wanted to come, but Roger made a face that made it clear that he had no intention of going without John; maybe he’d seen the fear and uncertainty in Roger’s eyes, because he’d agreed after only a moment of silent arguing. Roger, to his credit, does feel somewhat like shit for it: John’s essentially his security blanket, and being around Brian means Roger can’t talk to him, and since Brian can’t see him at all, it makes for a pretty dull and infuriating night. All the thanks won’t pay him back, but Roger’ll find a way to make it up to him. 

“You can’t really make any of them out here, though,” Brian is saying. “Light pollution and all.” Glancing down at Roger, he has the audacity to look embarrassed. Roger wants to take his hand and make sure he knows that no one is more beautiful than when they’re talking about something they love, but that seems pretty forward, so he settles for grinning at him. 

“You ever go out to the country, get a better look?” Roger thinks he knows the answer. 

“Yeah, sometimes. Projects and stuff.” 

If he doesn’t see a hobbyist star chart somewhere in his Brian’s flat, Roger will eat his own shoe. “Cool. Back home, I used to have a great view,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

A surprised “oh?” comes simultaneously from both Brian and John, followed by a surprised little laugh from the latter. Roger turns to glare at him, crazy appearance be damned, but turns back to Brian when he asks, “Where’s home?” 

It doesn’t take much to sour his mood. “Cornwall,” he supplies, trying for aloof and failing. John is giving him a funny look so intensely that Roger can pick it up in his peripheral, and he can understand why - he’d told John he was born in Norfolk, back when they were still getting to know one another. Frowning down at his feet, he tears his gaze upward back to the blanket of night, where two or three stars blink above them, determined to beat the haze over the city. “You?” 

“Hampton, Middlesex,” Brian says easily. 

The silence that sits between them isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it grates on Roger all the same. Small talk has never been a strong suit; he’s used to it being tempered with alcohol and the hint of a lay afterwards. It’s always a casual affair, the means to a different end, and it certainly never entertained reminders of his childhood, the ups and downs laden there. There’s nothing casual about the way Roger is handling Brian May, though. He's clinging to the idea of him like a piece of glass: pain, if he holds on too tight, reduced to dust if the pressure’s wrong. Beautiful in the right light, but with the potential for danger. He doesn't want to let go, would rather the pain of it than not having it at all. 

“I’m from Leicestershire, if anyone cares,” John declares to his audience of one, looking far too aloof for his own good. Roger would trip him if he wasn't so endeared.

Glancing at Brian, Roger notes he looks content enough, though his shoulders are hunched in a way that makes Roger think it’s a regular occurrence. “You in a band, then?” He inquires, because he's genuinely curious, and he likes the look that Brian gets when he talks about music. It’s clear neither of them want to talk about their childhoods - to be fair, who ever does, let alone to a stranger - so Roger is all to willing to claw his way back to safer ground. Brian’s smile goes a little crooked. 

“Sort of, yeah. Me and two of my mates, we’re working on fleshing something new out. We both used to be in another band together, but I left to keep at my studies. Miss playing, to be honest,” he says, tone wistful as he looks down at his feet. Roger thinks, for the first time in a long time, that things might happen for a reason. Maybe if he’d been more into his older band, Brian wouldn’t have been at the library for him to find, or walking near the school for him to walk into in the first place. Dwelling on all the quirky circumstances of existence has never really been his style, especially now, so Roger chalks it up to a very happy chance and leaves it at that. 

“What'd you play?” 

“Bit of this, bit of that.” Brian shrugs, in a statement that means he didn’t love all the music they made, but was proud all the same. “I like a heavier sound.” 

Roger grins at him, and remembers his espresso. “At least we agree on that.” 

Curls tossed about in a light breeze, Brian’s lips quirk up at the corners. “You in a rock n’ roll band, then?” Roger's hair, naturally, is motionless.

“Been in a few, before,” Roger mutters, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

“Before what, Roger,” John says quietly at his side; it isn't a question, but a reminder, and he sounds sorry for it, too. Roger frowns and looks at the ground, avoiding both John’s and Brian's gaze as he fights the burn behind his eyes. 

“I moved,” he adds dully, when it's clear Brian was going to let the awkward half remark hang between then. 

Fairness is never something wisely dwelt upon, especially when you're a literal walking corpse. Some people might have deserved to die, yeah - Roger certainly can name a few - but the reality is a complete lack of discrimination. Few choose it, but it happens all the same, and to all kinds of people. Roger's made his own brand of peace with it, but walking slowly beneath a blanket of hidden stars and street lights has never felt so painful. Brian is the worst kind of reminder that he'll always have regrets, will always feel that sense of loss burning a hole through the middle of him. It's no one's fault, except maybe Roger’s, for not cutting his losses while he still could, while he had the heart to think of what could be best.

He's going to regret this, he knows now. And yet still he walks, Brian at his side, unknowing, and Roger isn't sure he's ever hated himself more.

A cool set of fingers slides between his, jolting him back out of self-loathing and into the reality he's brought on them, eyes wide and breath caught in his throat. John squeezes once, eyes wide with concern as he says, “you're alright, it's okay.” 

The eventuality of consequence is smothered like a bonfire under rainfall, John's soft eyes catching and holding his gaze, pinning him without remorse. Roger nods, a slight thing, and John nods right back but doesn't let go. The pressure's off, but it's familiarity, and Roger holds tight. 

Brian’s either chosen to ignore his silence or didn't notice it as a peculiarity. “That happens. If Tim and I ever get this off the ground, you should definitely bring your kit by. If you're interested, that is.”

Salt, meet wound. John squeezes his fingers again, and Roger exhales through his nose.

They come up on a rather scrappy looking flat in a neighborhood Roger's never been to. “This is me,” Brian says, hand back at the base of his neck as he looks up at a second story window. “It isn't much, but,” he adds, his smile all lips as he looks to Roger for something Roger isn't sure he can give. 

Nevertheless, he tries. “Hey, it's better than what I'm working with.” It's not a lie. 

Brian still looks a bit bashful, but he gestures for Roger to follow him up the cracked stone steps. 

The flat’s interior is nicer than its exterior, and Brian’s immediately shucking his coat and asking him if he wants anything, but Roger’s too busy making eye contact with a red and black beauty in the corner by the sofa. “That the fireplace?” he asks in lieu of answering the question. John lets go of his hand, which makes Roger frown at him, but John just nods to the guitar like he’s giving him permission to scamper off and inspect it unattended. Roger shoots him a quick smile before kneeling, making sure to look with his eyes and not with his hands. As much as he wants to pick it up and inspect the craftsmanship, he has a feeling that sort of behavior will get him yelled at at best, kicked out at worst. 

“Well, it’s a guitar now, but yeah,” comes from the kitchenette, accompanied by the sound of a fridge opening. He sounds smug, and Roger grins, sorely tempted to twang a few strings in retaliation. 

“Hmm, wasn’t obvious.” Rising from his crouch, Roger pivots and falls on the sofa, limbs akimbo as he eyes Brian. Probably remembering Roger getting sat on earlier in the evening, John decides to stand behind the sofa, back bent and elbows behind Roger’s shoulders, chin in one hand. 

“Been calling it the Red Special,” Brian says, steamrolling over his attitude with a raised brow, toeing off his shoes as he walks from the stove to the sofa. “I got you a beer, if that’s okay,” he adds, holding it up in demonstration. 

“Thanks,” Roger murmurs, resisting the urge to purse his lips and cross his arms over his chest as he watches it sweat in Brian’s grip. Said urge is mollified a bit by Brian picking up the guitar after putting both beers down and hitting a few chords with ease to check the tune. Roger eyes the neck, the frets, the pickups with a critical eye, and finds nothing lacking. There’s a little spot that’s covered with a bit of tape, and Brian must see him puzzling over it, because he says, “decided I didn’t need the fuzz box,” by way of explanation. Something crosses his face, some sort of decision being made that Roger can’t decipher, but whatever internal dispute Brian is having seems to settle quickly, because he’s shifting the guitar so the body is in Roger’s lap. 

He has a split second to focus, and good thing he does - the guitar sits heavily over his thighs instead of sinking through to the sofa, and John breathes a sigh behind him, sharing in his relief. “It’s gorgeous,” Roger says, smiling down at it before turning and batting his eyelashes at Brian. “You’re _sure_ I can’t give it a go?” 

“Pretty sure,” he replies with a chuckle, lips pursed in an amused smile over his teeth. Roger is, quite frankly, exhausted with bouncing between existential dread and boyish fondness. 

A chime sounds above their heads, sudden enough to have Roger jumping a bit from his cushion, pinned as he is. “Oh, completely forgot,” Brian says, apology thick in his voice as he looks up at the culprit, a clock above the door. The beer continues to sweat tauntingly, condensation running down the neck and onto the coaster beneath it. “So sorry - one of my mates was coming over, if that’s alright? It’s one of the guys I told you about, the singer who wants us to take up a band.” 

If he was standing, Roger’s sure he would have fallen over. Fear runs from his head down to his toes, so immediate and visceral that it takes the proverbial breath from lungs. Yelling _no, that’s not exactly ideal_ would make him look like a right prat, and it’s not like he can explain why this is the worst thing Brian’s ever said to him. Dumbly, Roger turns to John as Brian lifts the guitar from their laps and moves to place it back on it’s stand. 

“Well this isn’t good,” John says, and Roger feels nausea curls in his gut, anxiety cutting through him like a knife. To his credit, John’s eyes are wide and his shoulders are tense, even though he’s largely unaffected by the goings-on in the room.

Roger’s panicked look must not show on his face, because Brian seems unperturbed when a single loud knock echoes through the flat. Making himself as small as possible on the sofa, John behind him looking grim, they must make quite a sight. 

Well, they won’t to Brian’s friend, and that’s the whole miserable point. 

The door opens with a flourish, and in steps a man with shaggy black hair, bangs windblown over his forehead. He’s got a strong jaw and a stronger set of shoulders, and he flounces into the flat like he’s the landlord. “Brian, dear, turn on the heat, it’s absolutely frigid. I’m going to freeze my balls off in here.” He sets his coat on the counter and turns and gives Brian a hug, all in the span of two seconds of entering the room. Roger would be impressed if he didn’t feel seconds away from collapse. Good thing dead blokes can’t throw up. 

Freddie Mercury turns to the sofa, catches Roger’s eye, and says, “hello, there, darlings. Brian didn’t say we’d be having guests.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HE'S FINALLY ARRIVED


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the folks going into this chapter wondering if Roger does, in fact, know Freddie: third person limited would tell you yes. However, I am a DRAMATIC BITCH and I wrote it that way for effect. Roger and Freddie are meeting for the first time, and let’s be honest, if anyone is gonna ignore perspectives, it’s Freddie Fucking Mercury.
> 
> (and to the outpouring of love for the previous chapter, and for this fic in general: THANK YOU.)  
> (have i mentioned yet that i adore my new icon, courtesy of @meddows-taylor on tumblr. because i ADORE MY NEW ICON.)

“Holy shit.” 

John’s grip on the back of the sofa slips, and he elbows Roger in the back of the head. Roger can say nothing, only nod in agreement, his skull throbbing dully. 

Freddie smiles, lips curled over his teeth, and turns back to Brian. “Well, they’re delightful. Where did you find them, the playground out back?” 

Brian cants his head, and a new flood of panic rushes through Roger so fast he's near dizzy from it. He can’t help but turn to John, who looks something like a mouse pinned beneath the gaze of a hungry cat. 

“This is Roger,” Brian says, slowly, like he’s worried about Freddie’s mental stability. Which is fair. “Met him at school, actually. He’s a Biology student.” 

Freddie’s gaze, sharper than it has any right to be, flicks from John, to Roger, to Brian, then back to Roger. He’s got the look of a man who’s processing at an alarming rate, and Roger recognizes it instantly because it’s a look he often sees on John’s face. He opens his mouth, then closes is, completely unable to think of anything to say. John shifts again behind him, and Roger turns to see him with a hand up in a fragile little wave. 

In a flash, Roger forgets about Brian and about Freddie, and turns fully to look at John, who’s gone quite white. Ignoring any semblance of consequence, Roger shifts and puts his hand over John’s, who’s got a death grip on the back of the sofa. He watches as John let out a breath, and says, “hello,” to the first living man that can see him.

Roger turns back to Freddie, whose lips are pursed and eyes assessing. There’s comprehension there, and acknowledgement, and space for a whole conversation. But in a blink the look is gone, and Freddie’s turned back to his friend. “A biology student? Brian, I never knew you’d stoop so low.” 

Brian’s still looking at him a bit oddly, so Roger leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and says, “attitude like that, you must be an arts student.” 

Freddie’s smile takes a turn for the wicked. “I didn’t take you for romancing bitches, Brian.” 

Brian makes a sound like he’s choking, but it’s drowned out by Roger’s surprised laugh. “Something tells me I’m not the bitchiest person in the room, mate,” he counters, standing and holding a hand out for Freddie to shake, unthinking. 

Roger realizes his mistake almost immediately, but he can’t back down now, but apparently his worries are unfounded. The man ignores it and loops his arm around Roger’s shoulders instead, pulling him so close their heads knock, other hand coming up to pat at his chest. His warmth is the same as Brian’s, thrumming with energy in ways it shouldn’t be, and behind him John makes a noise like he’s being strangled. 

“Well, you’re right about at least one thing, Rog,” Freddie says, like they’ve been friends for years. 

The floor feels like the deck of a ship, and Roger laughs shakily, managing to say, “at least one person acknowledges I can be right sometimes,” before backing out of Freddie’s grip. “Gotta hit the head,” he adds, turning to Brian with a question in his eyes. 

“Down that way,” he supplies, looking a bit overwhelmed, which Roger thinks is entirely unfair, considering the very fabric of his existence is undergoing a rather dramatic remodel. And then there’s John. 

Roger catches his gaze and John slinks around the sofa, looking at Freddie like he’s a predator about to give chase before following Roger to Brian’s loo. 

“Oh my god,” he says the second the door’s shut, turning to Roger with wide eyes. A hand comes up to his mouth, and he gasps, “oh my god,” again into his palm. 

“Hey, Deaky, hey,” Roger whispers, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in a feeble attempt at comfort. “This is a good thing, yeah?” 

John stares at him as he shakes in his grip, holding his gaze unblinking for too long before nodding once, a jerk of his head. It sends his hair from behind his shoulders to the front, and Roger brings a hand up to fiddle with the strands. 

“This is good,” he repeats for John, hoping his expression is a better reflection than how confident he feels. Because for all their unsurety, it _is_. Roger might not know the why’s and the how’s about what’s happening to him, but he’s not alone in it anymore. He was never alone, he knows - John’s too good a person to leave him alone in this, even though he’d probably deserve it - but now John gets to know what it feels like to be _seen_ , to be _touched again_. 

“Maybe you should talk to him?” Roger says when John says nothing, just keeps staring at him. 

The reaction is an immediate shake of his head. Roger feels a teasing retort rise to his lips, reminding John just how he was when Roger reacted in much the same way, but resists the urge and smiles instead. 

“Doesn’t have to be now, but you’re talking to him. We both are,” he decides, and his tone brooks no room for argument. John’s shoulders, which were creeping somewhere along the level of his ears, drop as the tension seems to melt out of him. For a moment, Roger thinks he might need to catch him, for fear of him falling, but he just leans heavily onto the closed door, hand coming back up to cover his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles eventually. “Yeah.” 

“C’mon,” Roger says, giving his arms one final rub for comfort, “we’d better get back out there before Brian thinks I’m taking a shit in his toilet.” 

It surprises a chuckle out of John, who swats him but looks a bit less shaken, and Roger knocks him gently on the side of the head before opening the door and going back out to their waiting hosts. 

“So, you’re the singer, yeah?” Roger says, walking over to Freddie with his hands on his hips, posture as relaxed as he can make it. John’s at his shoulder, arm touching his elbow, and Roger doesn’t have to look to know he’s trying very hard not to stare at the man. 

The man who’s looking at John with a smile, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “Ooh, _the_ singer, I like that,” he replies, but his gaze is still all for John. 

Brian doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s shaking his head and taking a swig of his beer before saying, “right to his head, I tell you.” 

Roger feels suddenly cornered, and rubbing his palms on his jeans doesn’t seem to assuage the feeling. He doesn’t know how to handle Brian, what to do about Freddie, and John, who’s normally a comfort, is now shaking against his arm. 

Freddie’s said something to Brian, taking the attention off of them for a moment, and Roger interrupts tactlessly with, “sorry, guys, but I think I’m gonna head home. Feeling a bit peaked.” 

Brian looks like a cross between disappointed and confused, and it damn near makes Roger double back, but John’s leaving his side while mumbling, “you don’t have to, Rog,” before phasing completely through the front door. Freddie tactfully doesn’t watch him go, but does stare Roger down, head cocked and eyes appraising. 

Decision made, he says, “thanks for the beer, I’ll see you soon, yeah?” to Brian, taking the few steps to reach him before touching his elbow lightly. He doesn’t have to put much effort into looking sorry. “Nice to meet you,” he adds, glancing over at Freddie, whose stare is unnerving. 

“Pleasure was all mine, dear. Do come and visit.” 

Roger gives a feeble one-handed wave, and nearly walks straight through the door. Remembering at the last second, he grabs the door handle and twists it open with an unpracticed hand, before pulling it open and shutting it softly behind him. 

The doorway that greets him is empty, which throws Roger off, as his mouth had already been open to try and give John the reassurements that would likely fall on stubborn ears. 

Pot, kettle. Roger huffs and takes the stairs two at a time, ready to start hollering his name, but it seems he needn’t have worried - John’s sitting on the curb at the base of the steps, knees folded to his chest and chin propped up on them. 

Roger eases his way down and leans too much weight against him, causing John to nearly overbalance. He blinks rapidly but looks over at Roger with a steady enough look, one brow even raised. Roger’ll take it. 

“Alright?” He asks, then chuckles and adds, “stupid question, I know.” 

John exhales on a dry laugh, eyes sliding shut and hands clenching around his shins. “Now I feel like an ass for taking the piss out on you,” he mumbles into his knees. 

Roger shrugs even though he knows John can’t see it. “I probably deserved it.” 

Tilting his head, John looks over at Roger with a half-lidded gaze, expression open and contemplative. It lasts for a moment too long, and soon Roger’s wilting a bit under the attention, because he already feels taken apart tonight, he doesn’t exactly like it coming from John, too. He looks like he’s going to say something, though, and Roger when opens his mouth to tell him to get on with it, John turns away so suddenly Roger’s mouth closes with a clack of his teeth. 

“Thank you for leaving, even though you shouldn’t have,” John says to the thatch of weeds beside his left shoe. “Means a lot.” 

Roger shoves him again, this time a hair too hard, and John has to stretch out a hand to catch himself before he goes ass over tits on the pavement. It earns Roger a glare, and he maturely sticks his tongue out in rebuttal. “I wasn’t gonna stay, not with you shaking like a lamb.” 

John frowns - no, Roger would go so hard as to call it a pout. “Wasn’t.”

“A foal, then.” 

“You’ve made your point, I think, Roger.” 

They’re at a standoff, Roger leaning into John’s space with eyebrows raised and John holding steady beneath his prying eyes, until he finally deflates, shoulders dropping as he lets out a breath beneath the weight of Roger’s gaze. “I panicked,” he finally admits. “Happy?” 

“I’m always happy,” Roger says, and it surprises a laugh out of John. 

“Yeah, alright.” 

“Enough of this,” Roger declares, bringing his hands down onto his thighs with a loud slap. Standing, he holds out a hand for John to take, which he does with no hesitation. “You know,” he adds, one John’s standing, Roger looping an arm over his shoulders, “this Freddie might be your Brian May.” 

“Stuff it,” John says, smiling sideways at him through a veil of hair. 

“ _And_ they know each other. What are the odds, right? Destined to meet, we were.” 

For once, John seems content under Roger’s touch, leaning in as they walk slowly down the lot. It’s both proof that John was well and truly shaken, as well as evidence that he’s slowly learning to like Roger’s touch. Maybe it’s his way of readying himself for Freddie’s. 

“Guess so,” John murmurs, and he looks down at his feet, lips still curled in a soft smile.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The grounds are beautiful for once, lit by the sun shining down on a clear day, with students lounging across the greenbelts all along the campus enjoying the rare warmth. Roger’s one of them, in a patch of sun a ways from one of the little fountains that so many like to flock around, mostly to avoid someone sitting on top of him. John’s nowhere to be found, which is reasonable, but Roger still misses him something fierce. Laying across the grass alone has its own comforts, though, and for a few minutes he shuts his eyes and loses himself in the muted bustle of the living around him, a happy illusion that he’s still part of it all. 

“I can’t decide if it’s impressive or sad that a dead biology student still hangs around the uni grounds.” 

Roger squints up at the figure a few yards away, adorned in a black blazer lined with stitched flowers and velvet slacks. He must be hot, Roger supposes, then he decides he doesn’t really care. True to his thoughts, Freddie sheds the blazer once he reaches Roger’s knees, dropping it in the grass with a light thud.

Roger can’t decide if he wants to laugh or punch him in the face. He tells Freddie as much, which gets him a chuckle in reply. “Fair enough, I deserved that.” 

“Are you gonna tell me how you can see me?” Roger's question is frank and flat, looking up at Freddie as he rises up on his elbows. Freddie wrinkles his nose and puts his hands on his hips, seemingly content to tower over Roger. 

“You gonna tell me why that pretty thing who was at your elbow yesterday is hiding from me?” 

It’s said with cavalier, and Roger glares up at him, dropping the shredded blades and thinking about rising and grabbing Freddie by his thin top. “You really gonna ask me that?” 

Freddie holds his ground for a moment before his shoulders drop a bit, and he leans over before lowering himself to the ground with a huff. Roger doesn’t look at him, and Freddie sighs. “No, that was cruel.” 

The silence waxing between them isn’t quite uncomfortable, but it has Roger shifting in place all the same. He has so many questions, all warring at the surface of his mind, clamoring to be released. What eventually makes it out first is, “how long have you been able to see us?” 

The question seems to take Freddie aback, and he’s looking over at Roger now, eyes wide and lips pursed. “I suppose all my life,” he says, leaning back on his hands. “As long as I can remember, anyway. It comes and goes - sometimes I have to focus to see anyone, and other times all I think I’m seeing are the dead.” 

His tone is light, but Roger swallows at the implications. “Sorry to say, but you might be haunted,” he jokes, because he isn’t sure how to handle a thought like that. Freddie sniggers, squinting over at Roger, a bit of smudged eyeliner from last night still accenting his large eyes. 

“Must be.” He looks up at the sky, and Roger wonders what it might be like to still feel the sun warm his skin through the chilly winter breeze, and finds he’s glad he remembers the sensation. 

The quiet stretches again, this time a little more relaxed, an odd sort of peace between them. Clearly neither of them do well in the silence, though, because Freddie breaks it after a minute. “How long have you known Brian?” 

For the first time since they’ve met, Roger hears a tone in Freddie’s voice that brooks no retreat, and Roger sits up fully, crossing his legs beneath him and hunching over with his elbows on his knees. “Three days,” he admits, and for some reason he feels an odd blossom of shame unfurl in his chest. It’s only been three days, but he’s chasing him like a lovesick hound. 

Freddie doesn’t seem to share his concerns, nodding and leaning back, pressing his hands into the grass as he looks skyward again. 

“Do you know why he can see me, then?” Roger presses when Freddie says nothing. Pursing his lips, he shakes his head, mane of dark ironed hair brushing his bared shoulders as he cranes his neck to look back at Roger. Which is good, because the anxiety that’s blooming alongside the shame feels like it’s about to take hold of his voice and start screaming at the guy to stop being so relaxed about something that’s literally changing his existence. 

In truth, the relaxed posture seems to belay the fact that Freddie is on just as uneven ground as Roger is. “I didn’t know anyone could except me,” he admits, and there’s something vulnerable in his face that has Roger’s hackles lowering almost immediately. “Oh, it’s not all as dramatic as it sounds,” Freddie adds, waving a hand right as a gust of wind tosses his hair and ripples at the neck of his top. “I’ve not done much with it, at any rate. Chatted up plenty, sure, but I learned that it’s rather hard to keep it going. Some pretty major differences between me and a bloke who’d had a heart attack three weeks ago. Getting attached, trying to help - not much has come of it, dear, so you learn to stop trying.” 

The forced lightness in his tone betrays the memories shining in his eyes, impossibly dark and vulnerable all at once. Roger has to take a moment to try and remove himself, because the words cut deep. _You’re not worth the time to spend time with, there’s nothing that can be done for you, you don’t belong together._

Clenching his teeth and his fists, Roger stares down at his feet, at the shoes he’s stared at for over a year now, and tries to be objective. 

Freddie’s been forced to see the dead as they are - unchanging, lost, and ultimately unfulfilling. But, he’s not really had much of a choice, not with the sheer number of dead lining the streets. If he looked up, Roger’s sure he’d see another walking through alleys they’d once known, sleeping on the sidewalk they’d maybe never woken up from. 

Roger thinks of his own death, of John’s, how they’re still _people_ , they’re still _here_ , and turns to Freddie fully. Freddie, who looks wary, but accepting of whatever frustrations or griefs Roger’s about to unleash on him. Roger wonders if he’s had this conversation before. 

“I get that,” he says, surprising both of them. Freddie’s mouth falls open and everything. “It sucks,” he adds, tone flat and eyes half lidded, acceding what they both know, “and it’s not fair. I can’t imagine seeing dead blokes and birds all your life, so many desperate for something more, and not knowing how to ask. Ignoring it is easier.” 

“It’s not,” Freddie interrupts, that vulnerable look shining in his eyes again. He speaks with his whole body, shoulders turned toward Roger, hands clenched, back rigid. This means something to him, Roger realizes with a jolt, and it opens his mind enough to listen.

“It became necessary, after too long. I wasn't helping, I was only drowning myself in their losses. All these people, who'd had the chance to love, all that potential gone. Instead of possibility, all they had was me, a ponce from Zanzibar who could only see and touch and listen.” Freddie looks down at the ground, pouty lips curled over his teeth. There's too much history there, too many ghosts in the taut lines of Freddie's muscles, in the gaunt hollows of his cheeks, in his trembling fingers. Roger stares, tires to imagine it, and fails. 

The lost expression Freddie's wearing melts away as he blinks, an intentional transformation as he smiles across at Roger. Surprisingly, it reaches his eyes. “These are all meandering platitudes, of course. I’m sorry dear - here you are, the dead one, and I’m off feeling sorry for myself!” He flings out a hand, casual as can be, and pats Roger’s shoulder. 

What little agitation Roger had left for Freddie melts away beneath his hand.

“Call me ‘the dead one’ again and I’ll give you a reason to really feel sorry for yourself,” Roger says, leaning into Freddie’s grip and smiling with as many teeth as possible. The laugh he gets in reply reminds him of wind chimes, Freddie’s shoulders thrown back as he laughs, overbite on display. It’s a lovely, unguarded thing, and Roger leans back on his hands, palms pressed into grass he can’t feel, and breathes deep. 

It's a lot to handle, sure. Three days ago, Roger's world was uprooted by a slight man with too much hair and a shy smile, and he'd thought his new life couldn't get any crazier than that. Now, here's a whirlwind of a man, disclosing personal shit - incredibly relevant shit - as he tries to bring comfort without asking for any in return. Not for the first time today, Roger misses John, his steady company, his understanding smiles and easy countenance. 

“You know,” Freddie says once his amusement has faded, looking around for a moment before turning back to Roger, “you don’t have to wear the same clothes every day. Not that you _can’t_ , it’s a perfectly fine look, I just wonder if you’ve grown tired of it, is all.” 

Irritation lances white-hot through Roger’s chest. “I don’t exactly have a closet to pilfer from, Freddie.” 

Instead of the expected apology, Freddie’s eyes go a bit soft around the edges, a sad little smile as he nods. “No closet needed, my dear. You remembered what you were wearing, and your brain is convinced there’s no other option.” 

Freddie doesn’t say it, but the words hit deep anyway. He’s still wearing what he died in, and though they’re bloodless and tear-free, the blazer and slacks still serve as a pretty shit reminder. Something aggrieved must show on his face, because Freddie adds hastily, “It’s perfectly normal, darling, you don’t exactly have anyone telling you this sort of thing.”

Like a cresting wave, Roger’s anger peaks and falls, washing away with little sign it was ever there at all. In its place is an odd sort of grief, the same as he’s used to feeling but watered down, mollified by Freddie’s sympathetic and cautious smile. “I guess I do now.” Roger’s reply is brusque, but he knows there’s gratitude in the lines of his face. Taking chances isn’t something he’s ever shied much away from, and this is no exception. 

Everything Freddie does is with a particular sort of flair, and shifting with embarrassment is no different. Hair swinging in his face as he shifts forward, he smiles with lips curled over his teeth, hands clasped in his lap. “I thought you were supposed to be mad at me, Roger Taylor,” Freddie says, looking up at him through his lashes, grin a sardonic little thing. 

Roger lifts one brow. John would be proud. “We can go back to that, if you’d like.”

“Oh no, you were much duller when you were spitting like a cat,” Freddie brushes him off with a little wave, then glances around again. In a flash, Roger understands why he’s been looking around the quad every other minute - must look quite mad, talking and laughing with a tree. 

Before he can suggest they move somewhere a bit more private, Freddie’s continuing, a whirlwind that Roger is surprised he’s looking forward to keep up with. “Just think of this,” he says animatedly, gesturing up and down Roger’s torso, “as all in your head. I’d say start with picturing yourself naked, but I’m not sure we’re at that stage of our relationship yet.” A wink, a touch to his arm, and Roger feels hope and delight alight in his chest, rising to his face in a toothy grin. 

“Try something you owned, something you wore often. It’ll be easier that way, I should think.” Freddie’s smile is encouraging as much as it is flirtatious, shoulders squared as he leans forward; he’s entirely serious, and Roger’s nodding before he can refute what’s bound to be a hopeless endeavor. 

Staring down at the grayed out grass, he thinks back on what he used to feel good in - the textures, the colors, the confidence both gave him. Freddie’s gasp makes him jump, and Roger looks over at him with a glare, nose wrinkled and ready to scold him for distracting him. Before he can, though, Freddie claps his hands together, eyes lit with glee. 

“Much better! If I could, I’d steal that from you, darling, it’s marvelous.” 

Roger looks down, and his eyebrows vanish into his hairline. 

Where a light navy button-up and heavier denim trousers used to be, Roger’s now looking at one of his favorite blazers, black with red velvet trimmings, unbuttoned to show a thin light blue top and his collarbones just beneath. His crossed legs are adorned with soft dark kecks, and feet with brown oxfords.

He looks up at Freddie, whose eyes are still wide with delight, then back down at some of his favorite clothes - clothes he thought were lost to him - and thinks he might cry. 

“There there love,” Freddie says, leaning close and setting his manicured hand atop Roger’s, which are both currently clinging to his bared ankle. “The change is nice, right?” 

Roger wonders how many people Freddie’s done this for. How many have been stumbling through this sham of a second life, alone in all the ways that matter, and seen this beacon of a man that’s selfless enough to try and help. A change of clothes is nothing in the scheme of things, but to Roger it’s everything. 

Part of him wants to tell Freddie this, make him understand how much this means to him, but there aren’t enough words for it. “I forgot to remember socks,” is what he winds up saying, eyes burning but smile bright as he chuckles through the tears threatening to choke him. 

Freddie, mindless of the living and breathing people around him, leans forward and pulls Roger into a tight hug, face buried in his hair as he laughs right along with him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've edited and edited and EDITED this mess of a chapter and this seems to be what my brain has settled on. Roger's a Mess bcause I was a Mess when I wrote it. this month has been among one of the most emotionally taxing I've ever had to deal with, hence the long wait. thanks for hanging in there, friends.


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